


loose threads

by tatelangdon



Category: Shameless - Fandom, gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Soulmate AU, not a happy ending but it’s fine, red string au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatelangdon/pseuds/tatelangdon
Summary: ian gallagher's red string is knotted and tangled, troubled and frayed. his string is damaged, but it's always been like that.soulmate au





	1. Chapter 1

The lore is simple.

Ian Gallagher has heard every rumor, every myth, every fact, and every stereotype about strings since the first day of public school. People gossip about soulmates all the time, especially when your fate is already guaranteed.

Nobody else can see your string except for the person it's tied to. Some people have more than one string, tiny little red knots on each knuckle. Others aren't so lucky. Their fingers are barren and empty, devoid of all love or the possibility of a happy ending. Ian feels bad for those ones, it must be incredibly lonely to live a life knowing that the world is overpopulated and yet none of them are made for you.

Ian sits at the kitchen table with his sister Debbie, describing their strings. Her string is very, very light. As history goes, your string thins out when your soulmate is far away.

"Do you think he's in another country?" She asks, waving her fingers as if Ian will be able to see the string on her pinky. "I'd love a foreign guy. Imagine our babies!"

"Slow down, Debs," Ian laughs. "I think you should probably meet the guy before you start planning your kids' names."

"Well aren't you excited to see what kind of girl you're going to fall in love with?" Debbie asks in disbelief. She's a hopeless romantic, the red string of fate is tied tightly around her heart and occupies her mind. The allure of soulmates festers in her young teenage mind.

"Would you guys shut the fuck up about that crap? It's like you can't communicate about anything else in the entire world," Lip scoffs, standing from the table. He dumps his coffee in the sink, shaking his head as he starts looking around for his car keys. "Seriously. Grow up. There's more to life than who you're destined to bang."

Debbie quiets down, chewing her toast silently as Ian rolls his eyes. Lip used to have a string just like the rest of the Gallaghers. He acted as if he didn't care for the whole propaganda revolving around arranged romance, but Ian would catch Lip looking at his fingers when he thought nobody was around. Every so often, Lip would glance down at his right hand as if something was tugging on it.

Then, one morning, Lip had woken Ian up first. Carl was still sleeping in their room at the time, so as the early morning dawn broke over the horizon of south side Chicago, Lip had to explain to his brothers that his string was gathered up in the palm of his hands. Carl had asked what that meant, staring at the blank palm that the two younger brothers saw as empty. To Lip, it was overflowing with thread and broken promises. Ian had to lean over and whisper to Carl, "It means his soulmate died. His thread was cut off from the other hand."

Sure, Ian doesn't particularly buy into all of the marketing and exploitation of red strings that corporations have profited off of, but he still likes the idea of that first encounter of meeting someone to spend his life with. It's comforting, almost. He likes knowing that no matter how much of a fuck up he turns into, someone will still be at the end of that string.

Lip has always been tough around the edges since that morning. He says that he doesn't mourn someone he's never met, but Ian knows better. He knows his brother boils with jealousy at every other person who still gets to spend a lifetime with their forever person. Lip doesn't get to have that luxury, it was taken from him before he could even meet her.

"Don't listen to him, Debs," Fiona comes down the flight of stairs, kissing her younger sister atop the head. "You'll meet your someone one day, all of you will! Now get your asses up and start headin' off to school, alright? Your brother is going to get suspended again if he's late to his first period one more time."

Carl rolls his eyes and starts mumbling about school attendance rules as Debbie hands him his book bag, the two taking off out the back door. Ian moves a bit more slowly, washing out his bowl in the sink as Fiona readies herself for work. He's not sure where she's working these days, she tends to jump around from place to place this time of year.

"What about you, Ian?" She asks.

He lifts his head, looking over his shoulder at where his sister cuts a sandwich in half.

He asks, "What about me?"

"You know," She says teasingly, elbowing his side. "Aren't you curious about who's on the other end? Yours is close by, isn't it?"

Ian looks at his hand, staring at the scarlet thread knotted around his finger. "Yeah. Really close."

"So..." Fiona trails off, smiling at him. "Haven't you ever wanted to follow it?"

The idea never occurred to him. Not once in his sixteen years of living has he thought to follow the string to seek out his own destiny. He always assumed that it would just find its own way to him, that one day a beautiful woman would walk through the door and everything else would just fall into place.

"I don't know," Ian shrugs. "I don't really care who it is. When it's the right time... then it will happen, you know?"

"Wise words," Fiona ruffles his hair, patting his back comfortingly. "Now go. If you're missing school to be at work, I expect you to actually go to work."

He laughs and nods, slipping his shoes on and heading out. Her words don't leave his mind though, as he walks down the streets of their neighborhood, he watches the direction that his string turns to. As he comes to a four-way stop, traffic blazing all around him, he's met with a fork in the road. To his left, he can go to work. To his right, he could follow the string to the end of the block and see who it leads to.

After careful consideration, Ian turns to the left and continues on with his day. He's almost worried to find his soulmate. His string is... different than most people's. In all the depictions of fate that he's seen in magazines and on TV, they all show very clean, smooth threads. A simple red line leading from one soul to another. 

However, Ian's doesn't look like that at all. Media portrays it as something unblemished and always perfect, even his own family has described simple hair-thin knots tied around their fingers. Ian Gallagher's red string is knotted and tangled, troubled and frayed. His string is damaged, but it's always been like that. It leads off into the distance of some place he can't see, but just judging by his string alone, he's kind of glad he doesn't know where it goes. He doesn't want to see the type of girl that would produce such an ugly, used, damn near broken thread.

Work goes by without any bumps, the same old routine of sketchy characters coming in and stealing from the convenience mart while Ian sits behind the register and pretends as if he doesn't see it.

He's halfway through his shift when it happens.

At first it's just the slightest tug. He almost doesn't notice the feathery movement, but by the third time that his pinky lifts up, he starts to become suspicious of the thread pulling on his hand.

Setting the magazine he was reading down on the register, he watches as the string bounces up and down, lifting his finger repeatedly. The knots become smaller and smaller until they're almost completely undone, his thread straightening out with the promise of hope.

They're close. He can feel the energy, hone in on the presence of someone he's drawn to. It's almost as if he's being pulled by a magnet, the string bouncing wildly in a nearly dangerous manner. It moves violently, as if he's no longer being beckoned, but now threatened. Follow. Follow. _Follow_. 

Ian stands, moving around the register to exit the shop door. The string stretches out down the street, then turns around the corner and presses against the brick wall. It's taut, the tugging of his finger becoming more and more persistent. 

His whole life is about to change. Once he turns this corner, there's really no going back to the simple sophomore boy he is right now. Time is no longer linear, it's dividing into two black and white sections. Before and after. This thread is about as thick of a divider as he can imagine, a small symbol that is going to bring a tornado of chaos into his life.

Is he ready for that change?

The string pulls on his finger as if it's deciding for him, so Ian turns around the corner to find a dirty alley. A man leans against the wall, a cigarette balanced between his lips as he counts money while another man walks away from him holding a bag of what can only be drugs. Drug deals aren't foreign to Ian, two of his brothers are dealers themselves.

What is foreign is the string attached to that male's finger.

As if he just noticed Ian's appearance, he looks up with arched eyebrows as his hands stop counting. "The fuck you lookin' at, firecrotch?"

Ian's eyes roam all over his face, for he is beautiful. His eyes gleam with the adrenaline of someone who has seen too much for a kid their age. His hair is shorter than Ian's, much darker in color. It brings out his fair complexion, pale porcelain. Untouched. Beaten and bruised and scarred, sure, but virgin. Never touched by another male. It's obvious by the way he holds his pouting lips that he's never experienced the euphoria of intimacy.

Next, Ian's eyes travel down to his hands. He's now slipping the money into the front of his pants, a tattooed hand slipping the hem of his shirt up to expose a gun nestled into the waistband of his boxers. A quiet gesture for Ian to _keep moving_ , but the taller one stays locked in place by the thing fixated on that boy's finger.

When the man notices what Ian is staring at, he drops his gaze down to look at his hand. His string is tied around his finger with a delicate little ribbon, no harsh knots like Ian's grown up with. Despite the difference, the thread between them is still short and very much attached. The stranger's eyes travel along the length of the thread to where Ian is holding his own hand out to display what's being presented to them.

The male looks back up at Ian and says with a harsh bite in each word, "Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me."


	2. Chapter 2

"Have you ever tried following it?"

"No," he lies. That seems to be a common question he's heard over the years, but he's gotten really good at answering with everything but the truth. "I don't care. I've got enough shit on my plate already, I don't have time to fall in love with someone."

The truth is, he has followed it before. Once. Just once. After that first encounter in the alleyway, it seems that his soulmate pops up all over the place. They run into each other at school, in the neighborhood, outside bars. It's as if the universe is angered that these two refuse to accept their fate, yet they keep dodging and avoiding each other at all costs. Over the two years they've been crossing paths, Ian's come to learn a little bit about his other half.

His name is Mickey. He's one of Terry's boys, but the dirty appearance and violent behavior was a clear indicator that he's a Milkovich. He likes Coors Lite, Snickers, and things flavored _blue_. It wasn't until a year ago that Ian found out there's a girl living amongst the Milkoviches.

Now, here he sits, watching Mandy paint her toenails a shade of electric purple. Her room is littered with skanky clothes, posters taped all over the walls and ceilings, cigarette butts and hair clips all gathered in the same pile. The Milkovich house is always loud, it's teeming with life. Every room in this house seems to have its own story going on, but Mandy's room is always quiet. They leave their sister alone.

"That's seriously sad," Mandy laughs. "What's on your plate that's so serious? SAT scores?"

"I want to get into a good school," he nods.

"Please," she rolls her eyes. "You act like your whole family isn't cursed to be pack rats forever. Lip's the only one who's got any potential, but look where he's ended up."

"Yeah," Ian bites the inside of his cheek at the mention of his brother.

Before he can wallow in the curse of wasted potential that all Gallagher's have been bestowed, the door to Mandy's room swings open as a loud mouth enters uninvited.

"We're orderin' pizza for tonight while pop's is being detained, what kind do you want?" Mickey looks up from the phone he's holding, presumably calling the order in.

When he sees Ian Gallagher sitting on his sister's bed, he rolls his eyes with an annoyed huff.

"God, Mickey, don't you ever knock?" The girl between them groans, wiping off some nail polish she spilled when her brother startled her. "I don't give a shit. Just don't fucking put jalepenos on it again."

Any responses die down in his throat as he stares at the redhead avoiding eye contact with him. It isn't the first time he's seen that kid around their house, he's just getting real sick and tired of it.

"God, you seriously couldn't be friends with _anybody_ else?" Mickey scoffs, shutting the door behind him. As he goes, Ian feels the thread tighten and he knows that Mickey feels it too.

"What crawled up his ass?" Mandy laughs, finishing off her last toe. She's naive and oblivious to the thread that binds her best friend to her brother, but Ian intends to keep it that way. "I swear, he's got this fuckin' grudge against you."

"Don't know why," Ian shrugs. He picks up one of Mandy's cosmo magazines and starts flipping through the pages about weight loss and orgasm tricks. "It's not as if I know him. He's just your brother."

Mandy nods, then shifts her position around on the bed to start painting Ian's toenails too. The purple covers up the chipping red from last month quite well. "He's so weird. He always bothers me and asks when you're coming over."

Ian stops, lowering the magazine to look at Mandy with intrigue. Then, his eyes slowly travel to the thread leading towards the door, trapped between the wall and the frame. It moves slightly as Mickey walks around the living room, the string taut and tight with proximity.

"Does he?" Ian asks with curiosity. If he listens close enough, he can hear a beer being cracked open as Mickey argues with his brother to move his legs off the couch.

"Yeah, he's totally a freak about it. It's like he can't stand you being here, but whenever he knows you're coming over, he won't leave," she lets out a troubled sigh. "I've given up trying to understand that psychopath."

As calmly as he can, Ian wraps his other fingers around the thread tightly. To Mandy, it just looks like he's holding nothing but air. Ian tugs on it tightly, watching the way it frays out as it's pulled between the door.

On the couch, Mickey watches as his finger moves on its own accord. He tries to ignore the way he's being teased, gripping his fist together and tugging on the string back. Once it stills, he shakes his head and takes another swig of his beer.

Mickey watches the door for any sort of movement, but it remains shut. He almost wants the string to bounce again, but the redhead doesn't seem to care that he's the only thing that's been running through Mickey's mind lately.


	3. Chapter 3

Ian turns the corner around the west wing, attempting to rush to his science class before the bell can ring. He stops in his tracks when he sees that his string has stopped, attached to the boy bullying another kid into giving him money. Ian turns on his heel quickly, desperate to escape. 

"Yo, dipshit," the voice calls out. It sends chills down Ian's spine, as if his body reacts in a special way whenever Mickey speaks to him.

Ian hesitates before turning around, looking at the Milkovich approaching him in the hall. Mickey wears a smile, but Ian won't fall for that false safety net. Just when he thinks that the shorter one is coming around, Mickey always rips that security out from underneath Ian. He's convinced they'll never hold civilized conversation. 

"What do you want, Mickey?" Ian groans, watching the abused kid flee now that Mickey's attention is on someone else. "Didn't you drop out?"

"Yeah, 'bout a year ago. But there's still bank to be made off these sad prepubescent fucks," he looks around as the hallway clears out, the bell echoing through the hall. 

"You stop me to talk about you flunking out and starting a drug business?" Ian asks, evidently tired of this conversation. 

"No," Mickey clenches his teeth. This kid... he gets under Mickey's skin. It takes a lot for him to not haul a fist right through Ian's smug little face. "Where were you yesterday, eh? Walked by that shithole market you call a job and this fuckin' thing was leadin' off somewhere else."

"Why do you care?" Ian shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling. 

"I care because if I'm gonna be fuckin' attached to you, I'd like to know where the hell to avoid," Mickey shoves a hand against Ian's chest. There's not much budge, taking Mickey by surprise. Ian looks as if he's 90 pounds, there's no reason for his chest to be so toned. 

"Well, for starters, you could try not showing up to my school," Ian sighs, walking around Mickey to get to his class. 

He's almost out of reach when Mickey grabs his book bag and pulls him back, gaining Ian's attention once more. He stumbles over words, fumbling and confused, like he's embarrassed for the first time. Milkoviches don't get embarrassed, they get angry. 

"Yeah, well, my dad's out on parole now," Mickey warns him, hitting Ian's chest once more. Not soft at all, just firm pecs. "So if you're going to be hanging out with my little sister, you leave me the fuck alone. I ain't no fag, and I'm not getting caught up in this faggy little-"

Mickey stops himself short as he pulls on the string they share, and abundance of thread reproducing as fast as Mickey's grabbing for it. He gestures out at the heap of thread held in his hand, a noise of disgust ricocheting about the hallway. Mickey drops all the string on the floor and turns his back to Ian, walking away as he shakes his head in disgust. 

"You leave me the fuck alone, Gallagher," Mickey calls over his shoulder. "Or else I'll have your fucking knee caps."

Ian sighs, shaking his head as he continues down the hallway. He can still smell Mickey lingering, and part of him hopes that the scent will stick to his clothes. 

In class, Ian grows bored with the useless lectures and stares out the window his thread is trapped through. His hand props his chin up, fingers plucking and strumming on the tight thread to watch the way it bounces. 

Off campus, Mickey is making a drop off for another customer. As he hands the drugs over, his palm spread and ready to accept cash, he calmly watches the way that his finger vibrates each time the string is plucked. 

Mickey smiles and shakes his head, mumbling under his breath "Fucking Gallagher."


	4. Chapter 4

Once Ian and Mickey found out that they could yank each other around with their threads, it was nothing but a game of tug-o-war.

Always at the most inconvenient times, and only one half of the duo is kidding. Mickey takes it seriously just like he does with everything else in his life. Ian, however, has plenty of fun with it. 

Right now, him and Mandy are sitting on the couch and trying to figure out their literature assignment together. 

"Why don't we just look it up online and copy it?" Mandy asks curiously, frustrated with the blank notebook in front of her. 

"That's called plagiarism," Ian replies, though his attention is elsewhere. 

Mickey leans against the kitchen counter, his pale skin exposed as he attempts to scramble eggs. He's very aware of Ian's eyes fixated on him, but he can't be bothered. He's starving right now, the fag in the living room is the least of his concerns. 

Besides. There's a reason Mickey took his shirt off in the first place. 

"Well, what's the big deal anyways? You're dropping out soon, so fuck this," Mandy throws her textbook down on the cluttered table in front of them. 

Mickey lifts his eyes up to Ian, who doesn't fluster and look away like he usually does. As if communicating with just looks alone, Mickey raises his eyebrows at Mandy's statement. 

Ian understands, of course he does. He shrugs at Mickey, who only nods and returns to cooking. Ian isn't sure if he's dropping out, he certainly can't find a reason to stay. It's not as if Gallagher's ever go anywhere in life, everyone already knows that. 

Mickey scrapes all his eggs onto a plate, carrying it around the wall to escape to his bedroom. Once Ian sees that the boy is leaving, he panics and wraps his fingers around the thread tightly. Just as Mickey reaches the bedroom door, Ian yanks on the string, causing Mickey to topple over with a loud crash. 

"Ow, for fuck's sake," Mickey groans out, sitting up from the floor with an aching ass. He's covered in tiny little cuts, shards of glass scattered over the floor. His eggs are wasted, pissing off the violent one even more. 

Ian gulps, not intending to cause so much damage. Now Mickey is going to be pissed at him, and once the shorter one is pissed, there's really no going back. 

"For Christ's sake, Mickey, walk much?" Mandy teases her brother, standing up from the couch to grab a broom. 

Mickey glares at Ian, his eyes flaming and dark all at the same time. He can't say or do anything, not in front of Mandy. Causing a scene would only make it obvious what the two share between them, so Mickey silently takes the blame for his random fall.

Ian smiles with a smug expression, which causes Mickey to start mouthing obscenities and threats towards his other half. Ian sticks his tongue out, which seems to be the final straw for Mickey. He stands, wiping some of the glass shards off his hands before slamming his bedroom door shut. Ian feels a pang of guilt, but before he can feel that guilt spiderweb through him, loud rock music starts blaring from Mickey's room. Judging by the vocals, this must be Hole. Ian's been learning the names of the bands that Mick listens to. 

Not that it matters, but it still gives him something to look up on the computer other than porn. 

Ian assumes he won't see Mickey for the rest of the night, nor does he feel his string move even once. It isn't until late after Mandy's fallen asleep in the bean bag chair with a beer cradled to her chest, Terry's snoring heard from the master bedroom, that Ian starts to quietly pack his things. 

He hears the door knob click open like a shotgun in the dead of the night, but he doesn't turn around. When Mickey's pissed, Ian can't even look at him without getting his head shoved through a brick wall. 

"Gallagher," Mickey calls out.

Ian stands and straightens his shoulder out, turning around cautiously to gauge how pissed off Mickey is. The blue eyed boy leans against his doorframe, watching Ian with precise eyes. 

"You leavin'?" He asks. 

Ian nods, shrugging his bag onto his shoulder. "Yeah. Fiona's gonna be pissed if I'm home late again, I wake Liam up every time I-"

"Yeah, I don't give a shit," Mickey shakes his head, wrapping his hand around their thread and tugging Ian forward lightly. 

Ian nearly stumbles over his feet, tripping all the way over to Mickey. He stops when they're a foot apart, his eyes searching the shorter one for any indication of interest. 

Mickey holds onto the string for a bit longer than usual, his fingers nervously fumbling with their connection. Ian watches him curiously, patient.

Mickey picks up Ian's hand gently, his fingertips rough and calloused from working with his hands too much. Ian doesn't mind, he just watches the way that Mickey separates all of his fingers until he's holding the pinky that Ian's thread is attached to. Mickey's thumb traces along where it's tied to his finger as if he's curious about the way that the string is damaged. 

After a few moments, Mickey grows irritated with their proximity and shoves Ian backwards with a huff. The electricity that was sparking between their fingers dies down and leaves both of them empty shells. 

"God, get the fuck out of my house," Mickey growls, slamming his door shut on their thread. 

The impact stings as if Ian's gotten his fingers caught in the hinges. The thread around his finger tangles everywhere that Mickey touched.


	5. Chapter 5

"Do you think it's going to work?" Ian asks. 

"Fuck if I know," Mickey grumbles. "You think I've done this shit before?" 

Ian sighs, looking out at the busy street beneath them. The two boys sit on an overpass above the highway, an uncomfortable tenseness between them. 

"It's kinda cold," Ian shivers. 

"We live in Chicago, dipshit, it's always cold," Mickey rolls his eyes. "Give me your fuckin' hand."

Ian sighs, holding his palm out for Mickey to examine. As soon as Mickey's fingers come near him, those little electric sparks are flying up once again. Their bodies know that there's chemistry between them, it's made very apparent by the goosebumps that rise up under Mickey's skin. Despite this, he still pulls the pair of scissors out without any regard. 

"So... just cut it?" Mickey flicks the scissors open, holding their thread between the two sharp blades. 

"Yeah, I suppose so," Ian shrugs. "You know you'll still have to see me. Just 'cause we're cutting our string doesn't mean I won't come around anymore."

"Well I didn't think you were coming around for me in the first place," Mickey shakes his head even though that's exactly what Ian's been doing. "I hardly even talk to you, why should I care?"

Except... he does care. He won't admit it to himself, but there's something taking over Mickey's mind that's screaming at him to throw these scissors over the bridge they're sitting against so that the shards of silver will shatter and break. 

"What are you waiting for?" Ian asks in that voice that always makes Mickey's insides feel hot. He looks up at Ian's green eyes, confused and waiting, then looks back down at the daunting red string between the two of them. 

There must be a reason they're tied together. These things don't happen on accident, fate knows what's meant to be. In all of his life, Mickey's never heard a bad story about the threads that most of the population has. Why does he have to be tied to someone he hates? Why does he have to be tied to a boy? And of all the boys in south side Chicago, why does it have to be Ian Gallagher? 

Mickey glances back up at the bewildered redhead, all of his clusters of freckles chewing through his pale skin. Why didn't Mickey get a soulmate he could love?

"Just fucking cut it," Ian grows irritated with the hesitation on Mickey's end. "I don't want to hear you bitch about this stupid thing anymore."

Mickey looks at Ian's strong hand held outwards in expectation. The thread is so garbled around Ian's finger, but it all smooths out towards Mickey's finger. Why does it look like that? Why does he feel nervous when he sees his string bounce? Why does he smile when he feels it shorten and shorten until he hears the front door open and Ian announce his arrival at the Milkovich house? Why does Mickey want to keep the anchor on his finger that's been dragging him to the bottom of the sea since the moment he saw the ginger it was attached to? He's drowning, but he knows he'll never get the answer to these questions if he cuts the string binding the two of them. 

"For fuck's sake," Ian huffs, grabbing the scissors out of Mickey's hand. "What's wrong with you? Just snip it-"

As Ian rattles off, he snaps the scissors shut and hears the clean cut through their thread. He doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence before his body is being taken over by violent throbs shooting up his arm. White hot pain spreads through his searing veins, a jagged cutting feeling ripping through his forearm. 

Ian clutches his wrist in desperation, watching as Mickey doubles over in pain as well. Their threads dangle off their fingers in two separate pieces, the red string dripping onto the concrete beneath them. After a moment of excruciating agony, Ian realizes that they're both bleeding profusely from the hanging wires. 

The harmful feeling they're experiencing is too overwhelming to speak, a wildfire spreading through Ian like he's made of nothing but paper and kindling. His eyes sting with tears, the gruesome horror too unbearable for him to handle. Ian feels as if he's just shot himself in the chest, his whole body shutting down one cell at a time. 

"Are you okay?" Ian stumbles forward, blood trickling down his wrist and arm in massive waves. Mickey's bloody fist clenches together, held out as if he's unable to comprehend what's happening to him. 

"Do I look fucking okay?!" Mickey shouts, pulling his good arm back to unload on Ian. 

Ian's reflexes kick in quickly, his hand coming up to catch Mickey's fist by the wrist. As soon as their skin makes contact, the pain subsides instantaneously. 

Mickey lifts his head in relief, looking at his bloody hand and the thread that's soaked to his skin. Then, his eyes travel down to Ian's blood smearing around his wrist, the feeling of euphoria coursing from that particular part of his body. 

"Let go of me," Mickey yanks his arm away just for the feeling of knives and saws to resume cutting through his body. Every single vein is filled with poison, acid burning holes right through their bodies. 

Ian's pain becomes so much that his arm feels heavy with misery. He can barely lift it up, his elbow swelling with the threat of popping and breaking open every bone in the left side of his body. He frantically scrambles forward to grab at Mickey, desperate for any kind of relief from the suffering they're both enduring. 

"We have to touch," Ian pants, his voice strained and rugged. His vision spots as Mickey dodges Ian's desperate hands, pulling away before the redhead can get clingy. 

"No way," Mickey's words have a certain airiness to them, his thoughts becoming clouded with the nausea. He's lightheaded, right on the cusp of losing consciousness. 

Ian stands to his full height, towering over Mickey as he forcefully grabs the male's wrist like before. The pain comes to an abrupt halt, both boys sighing in repose. Mickey doesn't fight off Ian's touch anymore, just melts into the feeling of safety. 

Ian lifts his injured hand up, his thread floating up out of the bloodshed coating every inch of skin. It's floating in the direction of Mickey, which leads his curious eyes to examine the way that Mickey's own thread is pulling underneath Ian's tight fingers wrapped around Mickey's waist. 

Ian lets go for a brief second, just fast enough to switch hands but still enough time for Mickey to cry out in agony when they're not touching. Ian's next move is bold, but he's the only one of this duo thinking clearly. Mickey's so overwhelmed that his brain can't even properly function with the amount of chemicals creating a frenzy in his head. 

Their fingers fit together perfectly. 

Ian entwines their fingers together, their knuckles locking in with one another and securing their places like they were destined to fit together. Palms, too. Every crack, every crevice, every crease, and every line interlocks with a crack, crevice, crease, or line in Mickey's own palm. Their hands begin to mend, the blood subsiding and crawling back up their arms in reverse droplets. The two watch with confused expressions as it all absorbs back into their strings, the red thread glowing white as it repairs the broken connection between them. The squirting blood that was once dripping off Ian's elbow is now reconnected to Mickey's hand in a delicate manner. 

"Not a fucking speck left on me," Mickey looks at the underneath side of his wrist to investigate for spots of blood, but comes up empty. Even beneath his fingernails is cleaned spotlessly. 

Ian sighs out, looking at the scissors he dropped on the ground. His palm is still squeezing Mickey's tightly, and if Ian didn't know any better, he would almost think that Mickey was squeezing back. 

"Okay..." Ian exhales, tired and exhausted. "So we won't be doing that again." 

Mickey takes their new string in his free hand, pulling on it a little to watch the way that more string magically reproduces just as it always does. He tightens his grip on it a little more, pulling Ian's hand even closer to his own. 

"No, fuck that," Mickey shakes his head. "Jesus fuck. No wonder people don't cut this fuckin' shit off, they probably died from a heart attack before they could tell someone what they did."

Ian nods in agreement, responding to Mickey with a stupid sarcastic line that gets the black haired boy laughing in the despair of their ghosting pain. It's fading distantly, their string now repaired between the two of them. Their brains are already forgetting how it felt to be disconnected from one another. 

There's no reason the keep holding hands, yet these two hold on to one another tightly for "good measure."

They're safe.


	6. Chapter 6

I Ian sits on an overturned milk crate out in the backyard, the buzz of clippers heard over the buzz of flies. His hairs getting too long again. He considers buzzing it all off, but Mandy likes it when his bangs are long. If one Milkovich likes it...

"Carl, go grab your brother a towel," Fiona instructs, starting her voyage on running the clippers up the back of Ian's neck. He can feel short hairs fall over his shoulders and prick his back. "Grab yourself one, too. We might as well buzz your hair while we're at it."

"But its almost winter," Carl protests. "My ears will be cold."

Fiona huffs and starts lecturing him about keeping up on clean appearances, but none of them are listening. Even Lip, who is usually on board with Fiona's rants, seems to tune out and focus on his beer.

Just then, Debbie appears on the back porch. She leans over the railing and calls out "Ian, your friend is here!"

Ian leans forward so he doesn't accidentally get a racing strip shaved through his head as he replies "Tell her to come around back!"

"Her?" Debbie looks confused, turning around to look through the doorway that leads into the kitchen. Ian watches it expectantly, waiting for Mandy to step through.

Instead, blue eyes and fair skin appear behind Debbie.

Every single Gallagher sitting in the backyard stares up at Mickey, confusion written over their faces. Ian hasn't even been paying attention to his thread these last few weeks, but maybe if he did, he would've felt it bouncing as Mickey climbed the steps up to the Gallagher front porch three minutes ago.

"Ey, uh, can we uh... can we talk?" Mickey asks in a wavering voice. His tone lacks the usual confidence, which only furthers Ian's bewilderment.

"...I'm kinda in the middle of something," Ian rubs the back half of his hair that is still shaggy and overgrown.

"Right," Mickey nods, shifting on his feet anxiously as he looks at every Gallagher staring at him. He knew Ian had a big family, but he didn't expect this many heads under one roof. "Should I wait inside?"

Ian nods, to which Debbie turns and excitedly starts telling Mickey about a tour of their house. He looks queasy and unenthused, yet he still follows the pre-teen. This puts a smile on Ian's face.

"Are my eyes deceiving me or did I just witness a fuckin' Milkovich politely ask to talk?" Lip asks, handing a cigarette over to Ian.

"What's up with him?" Fiona asks, continuing the haircut and occasionally swatting flies away.

"Don't know," Ian shrugs. He holds the lit end of the cigarette above the red string, the head singing the thread and causing it to curl up and melt. He can feel the pain searing through him, which means Mickey's skin is burning as well. This is confirmed by the harsh yank of the thread only moments later. "Maybe Mandy ran away again."

"No way," Lip shakes his head. "She'd tell you."

"Seriously. That girl wouldn't leave town unless she was takin' you with her," Fiona brushes off the extra hair clustered around Ian's bare back with the towel that Carl brought her.

"Nahh, you guys don't know Mandy like I do," Ian shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair.

"Oh, trust me, I know enough," Fiona scoffs. "So does every other guy in this town."

"Apparently I don't know jack shit about any of the Milkoviches," Lip points his lit cigarette towards the house to gesture towards Mickey. "Hasn't he killed someone before?"

Carl perks his ears up, suddenly interested in the conversation his siblings are having.

Ian shrugs, then says "Mandy's not like her brothers, though. She's different."

"So... then..." Carl says slowly as if he's trying to keep track of the Milkovich family tree. "Why is Mickey here?"

"Yeah, you two friends or somethin'?" Fiona asks curiously, taking the cigarette away from Ian to drag a few puffs off.

Ian's fingers curl around their red string. He shrugs again and says, "Or somethin'."

"Well you better go see what he wants, I don't trust that kid in our house," Lip shakes his head, reaching over his shoulders to discard his shirt so Fiona can cut his hair next.

"Especially not alone with Debbie," Fiona insists, waving Ian off quickly.

The red headed boy bounces up the steps to their backdoor, entering the house to locate his visitor. From the couch, Debbie points upwards without even lifting her eyes from the magazine she's reading.

Ian finds Mickey in Fiona's room. His first thought is that Mickey is trying to perv on his sisters things, but once he stops in the doorway and examines what the shorter one is doing, he only sees Mickey holding a framed photo from last Christmas that Fiona keeps on her nightstand.

"That's from last year," Ian announces his arrival. Mickey startles, but quickly relaxes when he turns around and sees Ian standing there.

Embarrassed, Mickey puts the frame back down on the desk. The other picture frames on her dresser have been moved too. "So? I don't give a fuck."

Ian smiles. "All of us got presents. Not just the younger ones. Fiona never told us where she got the extra money, but there was something in her eye that looked kind of... sad. Like she gave up part of herself for those gifts and she never got it back."

"What, like hookin'?" Mickey asks.

"No," Ian shakes his head. "Fiona's too stuck up for that. Stripping, maybe. That's what Lip thinks, but he got a new phone and I got his old one so we all just decided to keep our mouths shut that Christmas and enjoy what gifts we were given."

Mickey stands awkwardly, looking around the room as if he can't seem to find a way to escape fast enough. Ian takes a step into the room, to which Mickey takes a step back.

"Why are you here, Mick?" Ian asks.

Mickey swallows, looking around as if he doesn't have an answer to that at all. "I don't know. I should leave-"

"You do know," Ian responds. "You're here for a reason, so spit it out."

Mickey clenches his teeth tightly, his jaw sharpening and cheekbones protruding. Ian recognizes the way that Mickey curls his fists, so he raises an eyebrow in amusement.

"You came to my fucking house to beat my ass? Was the sprained wrist not enough?"

Three weeks ago, Ian stumbled across Mickey in an alley. They stood, staring at one another, and then something in Mickey flipped like a switch that just caused him to unload all of his anger and frustrations out on Ian.

Ian took the beating like a champ. He's got three brothers and two feisty sisters, he was raised to take a punch.

He was also raised to swing back. The cut under Mickey's left eye hasn't healed over completely yet, but at least the bruising has faded.

"Your wrist looks fuckin' fine to me," Mickey spits, sitting down on the edge of Fiona's bed. "Close the door. Don't want any of your fuckin' welfare babies running up in here while I'm trying to talk."

"Maybe... you could start by calling them my siblings," Ian suggests, closing the door behind him. His finger twists the lock shut as he says "Or did you forget that you're a welfare baby too?"

"Yeah, whatever," Mickey's accent is thick like Fiona's. Ian hasn't been cursed with the native Illinois tongue, but there's something comforting about the way that Mickey's sharp words are curved around the edges with the breath of someone who lives in the salty air of Lake Michigan. The smog and pollution and cigarettes all perfect the south side Chicago vernacular. "Sit down. We need to talk."

So Ian sits, focused more in the center of the bed rather than where Mickey is uncomfortably stiff along the edge. "About?"

Mickey tenses up again as if he's fighting with himself. Every word out of Ian's mouth is another swing at his own brain, the raven-haired boy fighting in internal war that he just might lose.

"I... can't...." Mickey takes a deep breath in. "I haven't- fuck, for Christ's sake. Fucking hell. I haven't been- Or, I guess, I can't really-"

"Spit it out," Ian nudges him gently.

Mickey looks at where Ian's hand touched and he takes a deep breath in. "Have you been having troubles sleepin'?"

"Sleeping?" Ian repeats, then shakes his head.

Mickey's eyes travel down the length of Ian's torso as if he just realized that he's shirtless. He was right, there's pecs and muscle underneath the freckled skin. No pudge like any other typical 18 year old would have.

"Yeah, like..." Mickey makes vague gestures towards the bed, then shrugs. "'Cause this thing keeps me up at night and I'm startin' to get real fuckin' tired of it. I haven't slept in days, man."

Ian looks at the thread that Mickey lifts up, his fingers delicate while holding it as opposed to the solid lead fists he drives through Ian's face.

"I'm sleeping just fine, Mickey. Really. Are you sure it's the thread?"

"Positive." The male responds. "It moves too much. And, like, not in a way where you're moving... it... like... floats?"

"Like it's calling?" Ian asks. He remembers the way that the string beckoned for him to follow the first day he ever met Mickey.

"Yeah, somethin' like that," Mickey shakes his head and shrugs it off like he does with anything that he shares vulnerably. "Or whatever, man. Just like it wants me to follow."

"So... you're here," Ian then nods.

"Yeah," Mickey rubs his hands together awkwardly. "Here in this shithole."

"So what do you want me to do about it?" Ian asks curiously. Just a couple days ago Mickey was telling Ian that he'd be better off with a bullet in his head, now he's sitting in Ian's house and sharing his dreams with the boy?

Mickey fidgets uncomfortably, his fair skin flushing hues of red and pink as embarrassment takes over his whole body. He stares at Ian as if he's trying to gauge where they should go from here, but truthfully, there's only one thing he can even focus on. He won't leave until he gets it.

"That day up on the overpass," Mickey starts out. "Can we... Can we try something like that again?"

"No fucking way," Ian shakes his head. "Are you out of your mind? I'm not trying to cut through this shit again, it nearly killed me."

"Not cut it, dipshit," Mickey looks down at his lap, his shoulders hunched up. "The other thing."

Ian tried to think of what else they did that night, but he can only recall the way that it hurt. It tore him apart from the inside out, right up until they-

 _Oh_.

Ian looks at Mickey's disclosed figure, the way he's distant and remote like he's almost... nervous. Shy, even. It shocks Ian to his very core that Mickey came here to even ask for such a thing like that.

But then those blue eyes glance up and they look like tiny little worlds that Ian wants to inhabit for the rest of his life. Naive and confused, borderline scared. He's opening himself up to rejection right now, all for the possibility of holding hands.

"You haven't been sleeping?" Ian asks again.

Mickey looks dejected and refused, his ego bruising every single way on the fall down to rock bottom. He opened himself up for vulnerability and now he's going to be mocked by someone he can't fucking stand. None of this would have happened if they didn't have this stupid fucking red tie bullshit binding them together for eternity. Mickey wants a free life. A single life.

"Forget it, man," Mickey stands up hurriedly, shame and rejection coursing through his body. He's never been embarrassed like this before, but most of it is shame anyways. "Fucking stupid. Don't even talk to me-"

"Mikhailo," Ian says calmly. His voice saying that name gets Mickey to halt in his tracks completely. When Mickey turns to look at the other boy, Ian is pulling the bed sheets back. "Come on. Let's get some rest."

Mickey stands there in disbelief, shocked and confused at the offer being presented to him. He stands, unsure of where to go or what to do. Accept or decline? It's certainly more than what he came here for, but Mickey will lose his sanity if he goes another night without sleeping. He needs it. He needs _this_.

He needs Ian.

So while Ian is undoing his belt buckle to kick his baggy pants off, Mickey removes his shirt and lets it drop to the floor of Fiona's room.

"Is the door locked?" Mickey's voice is riddled with anxiety. What they're doing is _wrong_. Two men should never lie together, not like this. Not sexually, not romantically, not intimately, and definitely not if their red strings tie together. This is _wrong, wrong, wrong_. If someone were to catch them...

"It's safe," Ian says softly. He reaches behind Mickey to flip the light switch off, the autumn sun shining in through the dark curtains to cast an orange glow upon the room.

In the hazy golden glimmer, Ian holds out his hand to Mickey. This is what he wanted. That day up on the overpass, the boys did two things. They hurt, and then they healed. The healing involved Ian's fingers linked between Mickey's just like they're doing now.

Ian leads him to bed, lying Mickey down and then covering them up under the bedsheets that smell like Fiona's cheap perfume. Neither of the two mind, just shift around to get comfortable in a way that doesn't require too much touching. It's new, it's foreign, it's exciting.

It's scary, it's dangerous, it's taboo, it's abnormal, it's wrong.

But Mickey relaxes instantly. His body eases out the knots in all the muscles he's had tenseness in for days, his eyelids dragging down faster than an avalanche down a mountain. It's all coming from the heat in his palm, the sun by his side. He feels comfortable lying next to Ian, as if he can finally let out a breath that he's been holding. He's safe. He can sleep now.

So he sleeps.

And he sleeps.

And he _sleeps_.

Ian watches the alarm clock on the bedside table count the hours up and up until they're nearing one in the morning. About every fifteen minutes, Mickey will roll over and squeeze Ian tightly just to make sure she's still there, and Ian pretends that this is just _how they are_. Not boys who hate each other, but rather soulmates that sleep in the same bed like this.

Mickey is really pretty when he's asleep. He looks less... angry. The world has given him the shit end of the stick all his life, but when he's asleep, all that fury and rage for every living thing subsides.

The doorknob jiggles, then is promptly followed by a knock on the door. "Hey, Ian, you in there?"

Ian moves quickly, falling out of bed and stumbling over his own legs to get to the door fast enough so that it doesn't wake the insecure boy beside him.

He swings the door open, looking at Fiona's confused face. "The fuck you doin' in my room? Is Mickey still here?"

"Yeah, yeah, could you just-" Ian takes a deep breath in. "Could you give us the room for the night? I'm sorry, Fi, I just really need you to trust me on this."

"Give you my room- What's going on?" She asks, trying to peek over Ian's shoulder. He narrows the door, knowing Mickey would hate it if she were to see him.

"Just- Mickey... he...." Ian sighs, then lifts his hand up.

Fiona stares at it for awhile, unsure of what she's supposed to be looking at. It's evident that she's confused, but before she can open her mouth again, Ian wiggles his pinky finger.

Clarity crosses her face quickly, her eyes widening up and mouth falling open. "No... No fucking way."

"I know," Ian smiles, then frowns again. "This is the first time he's wanted to be around me without beating the shit out of me so could you just, _please_ -"

"Okay! Of course! Definitely," Fiona nods, her grin spreading across her face. "I'll take the couch for the night. Don't worry about it. You guys... you guys have fun."

"It's not like that," Ian rolls his eyes, but Fiona clearly doesn't believe him.

She puts her hands up as she walks away, so Ian quietly shuts the door and turns around to return to bed.

Mickey is sitting up, the moonlight illuminating the scared look on his face. His voice trembles as he asks "Who the fuck was that?"

Ian approaches the side of the bed, pushing on Mickey's chest to lay the boy back down. He crawls over the top of Mickey to return to the side of him, his hand resting on top of Mickey's chest in a comforting manner. Through his rib cage, he can feel Mickey's heartbeat thudding like rapid fire.

"Don't worry about it. Just Fiona," he whispers against Mickey's bare shoulder, Ian's nose nuzzling into his pale skin. "Come on, get some rest."

And just like that, Mickey is calm again. His body loosens all the stiffness out, his muscles sinking into the bed. His heart feels warm underneath Ian's touch, and in that moment he knows that there's no use fighting it.

They're soulmates for a reason.


	7. Chapter 7

It started four months ago.

Lip found a group of friends that don't have any strings. He hung out with them for awhile, found a girl he liked, and now he's in a committed relationship that makes him happy. He's always going on Frank-like speeches about how the world doesn't need a thread to dictate their hearts and how they're real people in control of their bodies and minds. Ian always ignores his brother, rolling his eyes at the bitter chants of a man who lost his soulmate.

But then Ian started hanging out with Lip's friends as well. Some of them lost their threads, some of them were born without any. They all tend to flock to one another and stick together, pessimists in a world of hopeless romantics.

One of them is named Trevor. He's gay, just like Ian. They argued about who is taking what and who is receiving when, but they found a pattern that works well for them. Not boyfriends, but not just friends. It's mindless sex, it feels amazing.

No strings attached.

After Mickey spent the night at the Gallagher's all those months ago, Ian never saw him again. No accidental run-ins, no empty threats over the gas station counter, no bruised ribs and black eyes in dark alleys. When Ian goes over to Mandy's, Mickey is never even home. He can tell because the house lacks that scent; the pine needle and car grease smell that makes Mickey so identifiable to Ian.

He knows that his other half is still around, though. He's not locked up in some jail or splitting out of town, because Ian's string yanks and tugs all on its own from time to time. He's learned the specific waves of the string by now, the most predominant one is when it tugs in short, rapid motions. That's when Mickey is beating the shit out of someone. Ian can't help but smile each time that it happens.

"Morning," a voice pulls Ian from his slumber, the sleepy words trapped against his pale back as Trevor begins to kiss in a neat row down his spine.

Ian smirks lazily, blinking his heavy eyes open. "Hey, you."

"Wanna go down to Waterloo and get the all-you-can-eat pancakes?" Trevor hums against Ian's skin. "I'll let you pay for me."

"Oh, how generous," Ian rolls over, the blanket shifting off of his hip to expose his naked lower half. "I think maybe we should work up an appetite, first."

Trevor glances downwards and smiles again. "Yeah? You th-"

"Shut up and suck," Ian laughs, lifting his hand up to push Trevor's head down. The sensation of his mouth feels amazing, instantly sending goosebumps and tingles all throughout Ian's body. "Oh, yeah, that feels so-"

Ian stops his groan of pleasure short when he looks down and sees a new addition to his hand. He lifts his fingers up out of Trevor's hair, the soft morning light catching against the edges of his spread fingers. The halos circle around his ring finger, silver rings floating in circles surrounding the knuckle and dispersing into a more material form.

A red string. Another one, more accurately. The original red string tied to his pinky finger remains in tact, although badly damaged. This one is fresh and new, resembling the way it looked when he was just a naive kid who believed it would lead to a girl.

"Oh, shit," Ian breathes out.

Trevor lifts his mouth up, smiling up at the redhead. "That feel good, baby?"

Ian looks over at the boy in surprise, forgetting that he was in someone else's bed getting a blowjob. A sense of wonder and curiosity explodes within Ian, his limbs itching and aching to go follow this new string. He's getting someone new. Someone who will actually love him, a soulmate that reciprocates the desires to fall for one another. Someone who isn't Mickey fucking Milkovich.

"I gotta-" Ian sits up, immediately swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to start collecting his clothes. "I gotta go. I got shit to do today, like, I gotta... I gotta go to work."

"I thought you had today off," Trevor looks as confused as he is offended, wiping at the corners of his mouth as Ian quickly gets dressed.

"Yeah, no, I uh... I don't. But I gotta... I promised Debs I would help her babysit," Ian lies through his teeth, slipping his shoes on as fast as he can. "I'll text you later, yeah?"

"...Yeah," Trevor responds, but Ian is already out the door.

_New thread. New thread. New thread._

Someone who actually _wants_ him. That's all Ian can ask for, it's all Ian wants.

He follows the thread down the street around the block, the red line wiggling every so often. Ian notices that his string with Mickey is running parallel to it, not branching off at any point in his walk. Maybe they live in the same neighborhood. Another south side rat would be good, Ian can't stand the guys who come from upper echelon.

The string leads into the cornerstore on the edge of 7th and 16th. Ian pushes the door open hurriedly, excited to meet his new fate. He's building hope with every second that passes, imagining how things will be once he gets to finally fall in love with the right person.

The string leads down an aisle, so Ian turns down the beginning of it just to stop in his tracks.

Mickey is standing, staring down at his hand in confusion as the red thread from Ian's hand reaches his and ties around his ring finger. Mickey looks it over in confusion, those same silver halos circling it as it ties its knot and seals his fate.

Ian can't help but let out a sigh, which gains Mickey's attention. The blue eyed boy looks up at Ian, taking a step back from the one he's been avoiding. Then, he sees the new string attached to Ian's hand and his face quickly shifts from confusion to nothing but pure anger.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Mickey puts down the open bag of chips he was eating from. Ian doubts he paid for them. "The fuck did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Ian grows defensive. The disappointment hits him hard, all hope crashing down on top of him like demolition rubble. "Why the fuck do we have two strings?"

"You think I know?" Mickey snaps back, feeling the newer string in his hands to see if it's real. It's more vibrant in color, a fresh connection. "Fuck, I don't even want the first one."

"Thanks," Ian scoffs, turning around to leave the store. There's no use in talking to Mickey, he's hopeless. He doesn't want Ian, and Ian refuses to chase someone he will never have.

"Wait a god damn second, Gallagher," Mickey calls out, tugging on the threads they share. Two strings offsets the balance from before, Ian tumbling backwards. Mickey's got twice as much control over him, he can only imagine how bad things are about to get.

"What, you gonna beat me up?" Ian huffs, "Save it, Mick. I get the fuckin' memo. I'm not coming near you anymore, I got it."

Mickey glares at him with hostility boiling in his eyes, his jaw clenched. Then, quickly, his eyes drop down to Ian's neck. "Is that a fuckin' hickey?"

Ian flusters instantly. Did Trevor leave a hickey? That's one of their only rules; _no marks_. Apparently, that rule was broken last night and now Ian must stare down the barrel of his soulmate's gaze to explain why another man has marked Ian as his own.

"Why does it matter?" Ian takes the defensive route. It's clear that he's guilty, but what for? "It's not like you care who I do or don't sleep with. You don't want anything to do with me."

Mickey clenches his teeth and looks away, embarrassing himself further with every second that passes. He looks around, eyeing down the store clerk who can't be bothered to take out her headphones. Still, Mickey doesn't feel safe here. This conversation is too public for his liking, so he pushes on Ian's chest and spits out "Go outside. I'm not fuckin' talking about this here."

They always end up in alleys. In Chicago, there's an endless amount of them. The two are starting to become familiar with seeing one another's faces in the darkness.

"So, what, you're just sluttin' around with some fuckin' guy?" Mickey shoves Ian's chest again.

"Why do you even care, huh?" Ian pushes back. "You took off, Mickey. _You_ took off. It's been four fucking _months_ since I've seen you, and now you're pissed that I've found another man?"

"Yeah, I'm fuckin' pissed, dipshit! Because of you we got a second string cuttin' off all the circulation in my god damn finger tips!" Mickey shouts, then looks around and lowers his voice. "What, so you've got some fairy little boyfriend now?"

"Maybe," Ian shrugs, desperate to piss Mickey off. "What did you expect, Mick? You won't even fucking talk to me. I get that the universe thinks we should be together, but I don't. I don't."

Mickey takes a step back, his chest locking up in a way he can't describe. It feels like that day they cut their strings, but this hurts differently. All the pain is concentrated in one spot above his ribs, off centered to the left a little bit. It _hurts_.

"So this is it," Mickey exhales. "You're really just gonna fuck whoever you want."

"Well I don't see you bending over any time soon," Ian seethes. "I'm not wasting my god damn time on you because you don't want to admit the fact that you're a fag. I'm not your hopeless dog to keep on a leash, Mickey. Fuck you."

Mickey takes a step back, shaking his head as it rushes with emotion. The most abundant feeling is the one of nausea, his seasick limbs waving with the ocean he's drowning in.

"Fine," Mickey's voice wavers. He sounds defeated, his confidence crushed and his flame extinguished. He blames all of his feelings on the newest string, it's throwing everything out of balance. "Do whatever the fuck you want, I don't care. Just don't come near my sister no more."

"Or else what?" Ian almost laughs at the absurdity. "You'll chop my dick off? I'd like to see your insecure ass reach your hand outside of the closet to even try."

"Just don't, Ian," Mickey's voice sounds ragged. He shakes his head sadly, his big blue eyes not recognizing the boy he's standing with. Things got bad for Mickey after he came home smelling like someone else's aftershave one night. The belt marks on his back are still scarring over. "I don't want to see your face ever again."

Mickey takes a few steps back, then turns and leaves the alley quickly. His hands come up to press against his eyes as he walks, leaving Ian stunned and confused about the surge of emotion he just witnessed.

His fingertips reach up to brush against his neck, outlining the edges of someone else's mouth shape. The strings tied to his finger singe and burn as he rubs it, guilt pooling within him.

He shouldn't feel bad, yet he does. He guesses that's what happens when your destiny is entwined with someone else's.


	8. Chapter 8

Down in the south side, lots of things go bump in the night. Plenty. Ian has learned to sleep through the gun shots and broken car alarms, the rabid dogs barking and the shouts of junkies arguing with one another. It all sounds like home to him, but that does not make him immune to sounds that should not be there. 

He's woken up by Carl, his younger brother holding out the baseball bat. He prods at Ian's shoulder and whispers "Ian, there's some creepy man in the kitchen." 

"That's our dad," Ian rolls over, shooing Carl away. "His name is Frank and he lives here."

"No, Ian-" Carl is cut off by the crash of a drunkard who doesn't know their way around this house. 

Ian sits up abruptly, his ears honing in on the sounds coming up from the kitchen. As Lip starts to stir, Fiona's bedroom door opens up and she passes by the boys' open room to check downstairs. 

Ian grabs the bat from Carl's hands, following Fiona down the staircase with a fist full of splinters. Frank usually isn't this noisy, but most nights, Frank can't even get up to the porch. 

Fiona bravely flips the light switch on, the kitchen flooding with illumination. Ian readily holds the bat beside his sister, his protective senses kicked into high gear. Once his eyes adjust to the new lighting, he quickly realizes that the intruder isn't their drunk father at all. 

"Mickey?" Fiona and Ian say in unison. 

Mickey Milkovich stands in their kitchen, eyes wide as if he's been caught red-handed. The smell of cheap booze and hot whiskey lingers around him, wafting sour fragrances towards the two interrogating him in their own home. 

Mickey puts his hands up, his eyes going from Fiona to the bat over and over again. He doesn't quiet look at Ian, mostly because Ian isn't the one he's scared of. 

Ian sees the way his stance is drunkenly limp, the lack of fire in his eyes. Mickey Milkovich never surrenders a fight, he'd sooner have Fiona bust all his teeth out with the blunt end of this baseball bat before putting his hands up. Yet, here he stands, his palms facing the two Gallaghers as his strings to Ian glow against the hollow kisses of moonlight curving in through the window. 

He looks... afraid?

"Alright, alright," Ian lowers the bat, exhaling as he turns to Fiona. "It's fine, man. I've got him. Go back to bed, I'll get him home."

"Are you sure?" Fiona's eyes flick between Mickey and Ian. She never stops being an older sibling, not even once. 

"Go," Ian shoves her shoulder, earning a hearty jab from his sister. "He probably woke Liam up, you know he can't go back to sleep with Carl staring at him."

Fiona smiles at her brother, then glances down at his hands around the bat as if she can see the strings tied to Mickey. However, he knows that's not true, but his sister is gone before he can look too far into it. 

Once the two of them are alone, Ian turns back to see where Mickey is leaning against their fridge for some sort of support. "What are you doing here, Mickey? You can't just keep showing up at my house. Do you know what time it is?"

"Ian," Mickey whispers out, his voice raw and bloody. He looks awful, worse than the usual Milkovich dirt. He looks... ragged. As if he started fighting a week ago and just hasn't stopped. "I can't do this, man. I can't do this."

Ian's face twists in confusion. He sets the bat against the counter, watching the way the tension drops out of Mickey's shoulders as he lets out a sigh of relief. "Do what?"

"My... My dad, Ian. It's my dad," Mickey's hushed voice falls on a soundless house, the floorboards silent enough to tune into these secret words. 

Ian stares at him for a moment more to just observe Mickey's appearance. His clothes are bloodstained and blackened, presumably from fighting in places he shouldn't be. The dirt under his nails has the same staining as dried blood, but that's not even the concerning part. Ian is focused on the clean streaks running down Mickey's face, the trails of someone who has been crying. His tired eyes rim red with exhaustion and emotion, the dilated pupils acting as proof of his inebriation. 

"Alright," Ian eventually says, waving Mickey over to him. "Come on, big guy. Let's get some coffee brewing to sober you up."

"No," Mickey reaches out and clutches Ian's arm. The touch feels warm and right, but when Ian looks down to admire their skin on skin, he only sees the cigarette burns in Mickey's fair skin where his coat sleeve rides up. "I can't."

Ian lifts his eyes up in confusion, searching Mickey's expression for any sort of clue as to what's going on. It isn't often that Mickey shows a side of himself this vulnerably. Ian knows it took a lot of courage for Mickey to come here tonight, even if he is piss drunk at three in the morning. 

But maybe it's not bravery at all, for desperation will drive you to the very thing you hate most in this world. 

Mickey's fingers tighten around Ian's arm. Hatred and desperation tug at each individual finger, the two emotions tangling like the threads attaching the boys to one another. 

"He's dead."


	9. Chapter 9

Mickey hasn't been doing so well.

Ian only sees bits and pieces of it, everything hazy and flashing by fast like streetlights on a dark bridge. Here, gone, here, gone. When the lights illuminate Mickey for those brief moments, Ian only sees the rubble of a broken man.

Ian knows that Mickey starts to need someone around two in the morning. Every time. The first few nights, Ian was woken up by the drunken Milkovich breaking into his house and trying to stumble upstairs, calling out the name Gallagher like it would set things right in his mind.

Eventually, Ian learned. He adjusted his sleep schedule so that he could wake up just before two and head downstairs to sit outside on the porch. It's easier this way, it doesn't wake his siblings. Sometimes he catches Frank stumbling home from The Alibi, but he knows when Mickey is coming just from the strings on his hands that warm whenever his soulmate approaches the path towards him.

Here he comes, in all his fucked up glory. Like usual, his steps are stumbling and mismatched, as if his feet don't align with the road they're walking. He doesn't have a bottle with him, but that's fine. Mickey knows that Ian waits with two beers.

They haven't addressed it, whatever this is. Neither of them breathe a word of what their late nights together mean, because addressing it would mean that there's anything between them in the first place. And that's just not true.

"Hey, big guy," Ian says quietly, moving over on the porch step for Mickey to sit down beside him. "How you doin'? Your head feelin' alright?"

Two nights ago, Mickey came over with a gash in his hairline that retreated all the way behind his ear. Ian pulled him into the kitchen, flipping the light switch on, and held Mickey's face between his two hands as he examined the wound. He's good with injuries, he thinks he could make a career out of it. But there's only so much he can do with Debbie's first aid kit, so he told Mickey to go to the hospital and get some stitches.

Mickey takes his seat, touching the staples in his skin very tenderly. They're still sore, the skin too sensitive to touch, yet he does.

"Fuckin' hurts," Mickey says.

Ian nods with a slight smile. "I bet. You gonna tell me how you got it?"

Mickey scoffs and leans away from Ian, the barrier between them only strengthening. Ian knows better than to ask Mickey questions, because Mickey will never answer them. He wasn't raised in a house where he was allowed to talk about his feelings, he was raised to keep his mouth shut. If someone tried to open that mouth for you, you beat the shit out of them. That's just how Milkoviches bleed.

"Alright, alright," Ian puts his hands up, backing off the topic. "You're going to have to open up to me at some point, man."

"Nothing to open up about," Mickey shrugs loosely. He takes the bottle of beer from Ian's lap, screwing the tight bottlecap off.

"So you come here for my cheap beer then?"

"Hey, it's free," Mickey responds. He glances at Ian out of the corner of his eye and admires the way that the porch light makes his hair glow. The embers of a fire, the burn of wood.

Ian smiles and looks over at him, just enough to catch the tail end of Mickey's gazing. He knows Mickey stares, but he doesn't really mind. He stares too. Mickey has these pretty blue eyes that reflect the whole moon at night, but tonight, there's merely the shadow of an eclipse taking over his icy hues. His expression gets sadder and sadder each night that he comes here.

"You still seein' that fag?" Mickey asks, his voice sounding as hollow as an empty gun barrel.

Ian laughs and shakes his head. "Why do you care?"

"I don't. I'm just tryin' to make some fuckin' conversation," Mickey slurs his words together with an intoxicated tongue.

"I am, yeah," Ian responds. He's not.

"And how's that workin' out, eh?" Mickey turns to look at Ian.

"It's... It's good, yeah," Ian shrugs. Him and Trevor fell off, but Ian can't blame him. After all, Ian's the one that has been neglecting him to spend his nights with the bruised Milkovich. "He, uh, he's sweet. He takes me out for breakfast... n' stuff."

Mickey doesn't ask what stuff is, he doesn't need the details. He remembers the way his torso split open that day he saw the outline of another man's lips on Ian's neck. He can't experience that again, not with his current state. "You into that kinda shit? Breakfast, I mean. Going out."

"I am," Ian nods. He knows Mickey will just make fun of him for being a hopeless romantic, but he doesn't care. "It's nice. He's not afraid to be seen with me."

Mickey sighs, setting his head in his hands. Usually, he would spit curses at Ian and give him a shiner that lasts on his porcelain face for days, but he just can't find the energy in him tonight. He's tired. He's unbelievably tired of all this... all this lying. Not only to Ian, but mostly to himself. It's taking a toll on Mickey, and it's starting to become very apparent.

"I'm not afraid," Mickey says quietly. His voice is nothing but a soft whisper, lacking all hostility it usually holds. "I'm not. My dad would kill me, that's all."

Ian is silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on the hunched up shoulders, the tense arms, and the shaking hands. Vulnerable. The streetlight passes above Mickey, showing all that damage and aftermath that Ian only gets glimpses of.

"...He's gone, Mickey. You don't have to be afraid anymore," Ian says quietly.

Mickey's breath hitches in his throat and his hands seem to tighten on his own head, his knees drawing in tightly. Hearing those words cause all the memories to bubble to the surface, red, dripping with blood.

"Just... Just 'cause... Just 'cause he's fuckin' dead, don't mean he's _gone_ ," Mickey stumbles over his words, not sure how to explain the winding bomb in his throat. Mickey taps the side of his hand with his palm. "He's in 'ere. I hear him all the time. All the _fucking_ time."

Ian watches as Mickey sinks his head down even further, tucking himself between his legs and guarding his head with his folded arms. A small boy, small and sad. There's none of that violent bite that snaps out of him anytime he catches someone staring for too long, just the ghost of a child that was beaten one too many times.

There's nothing to say. Ian knows that anything that comes out of his mouth is just going to insult something in Mickey, and he's not exactly ready to see this vulnerable boy go just yet.

Mickey is only getting worse with each second that Ian doesn't do something.

So, as gently as he can, he reaches out and lets the back of his hand brush against Mickey's forearm. The boy flinches, lifting his head just slightly to see why he's being touched. Ian's hand softly ghosts against the skin, sliding up Mickey's arm, strings getting shorter and shorter.

"What are you-" Mickey tries to ask, but something stops him. His chest feels tight with ache, he doesn't know why.

Ian's fingers slowly slip around Mickey's thin wrist, the pads of his fingertips dipping into the rough palms. Mickey lowers his hand away from his head, letting Ian take up all the spaces between his fingers.

Then, they're holding hands.

Mickey looks around the neighborhood anxiously, as if something bad will happen if they don't get away from one another. He stares at a particularly shady car, expecting his dead father to come barging out with mold and rot decaying his face.

Nothing happens. The world doesn't explode. Mickey's hand doesn't burn off. The gates to hell don't open up beneath them to swallow them whole.

Mickey slowly brings those wax pond eyes over to Ian, watching the way that the ginger boy just looks down with a fond smile. Then, he looks at their hands. Ian's hand is a little bigger than his, but Mickey's got bonier knuckles. Their threads tighten together, glowing golden in the dark of the night like two wedding rings. He scoffs at the irony, but he still sinks in a little to let his shoulder touch Ian's.

"It's alright, Mickey," Ian says.

And it is. It's alright.


	10. Chapter 10

Now that Ian's whole family knows that his string is tied to a Milkovich, Mickey has been coming over a lot more lately. Sometimes, Mandy will ask him where he goes for hours at a time, and Mickey always flips her off and tells her to mind her own business.

Ian doesn't mind lying to Mandy if it means he gets to see Mickey more. This is what he's always wanted. A partner. A boyfriend. A soulmate. They haven't put any labels on it yet, mostly because it's going so well that neither of the two want to fuck it up yet.

"You skippin' again today?" Fiona asks as she digs around the recliners cushions to search for her car keys. She looks at Mickey and smiles, pointing a stern finger on him. "I think you're a bad influence on him."

Fiona doesn't mean that at all, and Mickey knows that. Truthfully, Ian's older sister is relieved that Ian has finally found something that makes him so _happy_. He was starting to show traits that Fiona saw in their mother growing up, but all signs of that have been brought to a halt now that Mickey is around. What she doesn't know is that they're just slowed down more, not stopped completely.

"Yeah," Ian shrugs. "We're gonna head down to the YMCA later to shoot some hoops."

Fiona gives him a look that calls bullshit, but she doesn't comment on it. Finally, she finds her keys stuffed under a stack of magazines and kisses her brother on the forehead as she leaves with Liam for the day.

"Is that everyone?" Mickey asks, his eyes fixated on the television. His knee bounces. He always gets really nervous about this.

"Yeah," Ian says, turning towards him, "House is empty."

Mickey's blue eyes glance at him quickly, then they're back on the TV. Only for a moment, though. It takes milliseconds for him to reach over and grab Ian by the front of the shirt, pulling his soulmate in for a kiss. 

Ian leans into it immediately, his mouth working against Mickey's so intensely that you would think it was their first time kissing. Their first kiss was clumsy and awkward, but Ian will always hold the memory of Mickey staring up at him with wide blue eyes and asking for it close to his heart.

Now, it's all they seem to do. They can't keep their tongues to themselves. Mickey lies back on the couch, bringing Ian's body up over him. He loves being underneath Ian like this, especially when Ian uses his arms to support himself. When he does that, his hands pin Mickey's wrists down and Mickey can admire the biceps that flex just for him.

"Open," Ian mumbles, his teeth grazing along the bottom of Mickey's lip.

Without hesitation, Mickey's mouth parts and his tongue is slipping out, his heavy pants against Ian's mouth only turning the redhead on even more. Ian licks all along Mickey's tongue, covering every bit of the surface with lust and affection. Mickey's arms snake around Ian's back as he pulls the redhead down, bringing their bodies flush with one another.

In doing so, with his thigh right between Ian's legs, he can feel the outline of something hard through Ian's pants. That feeling alone brings out a weak moan from Mickey's throat, something he's never heard come out of himself before.

Ian realizes very, very fast what Mickey is doing. As they lick all around each other's mouths, sloppy and messy, saliva shared between the two of them, he can feel Mickey's leg slowly moving back and forth.

Ian pulls away, admiring the way that Mickey's whiny face attempts to pull him back in. Mick has this pale skin that flushes a rosy color as soon as he's embarrassed, it matches his shiny raw lips perfectly. Ian thinks he looks prettiest like this, but for right now, his mind isn't focused on admiring.

" _Ian_ ," Mickey whines again, moving his thigh up in desperation. "Fucking kiss me."

Ian smirks, dangerous and playful, lifting his hands up from Mickey's wrists to trail down his lover's body. Mickey gasps and writhes around underneath him as his hands spread all over, sinking lower, and lower, and lower.

Then, they're on the button of Mickey's jeans, and the dark haired boy is sitting up in alarm. They've been taking things slowly, barely past kissing. It's taken Mickey a lot to even open up to the idea of making out, he's not sure what else he's ready for.

"Ian, wait," Mickey says breathlessly, his hands covering Ian's. "I'm not- I don't- _Fuck_."

Ian starts to pull away, but Mickey's hands tighten on his as he realizes how fucking hard he is just from feeling Ian's dick pressed against his thigh. There's a tight coil winding in Mickey's stomach, as if the red string living inside of him is tightening with every second they're not kissing.

"I'm not ready for... anything, really," Mickey whispers truthfully. "But I want to feel you."

Ian blinks, trying to figure out what they can do that doesn't directly result with Ian's dick inside Mickey. "You can blow me?"

"Oh, go fuck yourself," Mickey shoves Ian's hands away in annoyance. "As if I'd get on my knees for you, faggot."

Ian grinds down directly into Mickey's crotch then, pulling a deep moan out of Mickey's mouth. The small one covers his mouth in embarrassment, those cheeks of his only deepening in hue.

"Oh, I was just trying to shut you up," Ian smirks, lowering himself back down to kiss Mickey's knuckles over his mouth. "But... you like that?"

Mickey hesitantly nods, his pupils widening with pure want. He craves to feel that again, the friction, the weight, the pleasure. He needs it. He needs Ian.

"Say it," Ian nose brushes against the back of Mickey's hand, his fingers starting to slowly unbutton Mickey's pants. This time, he doesn't stop Ian. "Say you want it."

Mickey slowly lowers his hand from his mouth, biting his bottom lip as Ian's fingers brush over his cock while he unzips Mickey's pants. He attempts to grind up into the touch, but Ian's hand slams him back down by a tight grip on the boy's hips.

"P-Please," Mickey stutters, his hands coming down to undo Ian's own pants. He doesn't break eye contact, just silently begs the boy above him for what he wants. "I need it."

Ian's dick twitches as the sight of such submissiveness, so his next moves after that are twice as fast as they were before. Driven by cravings, he lifts Mickey's hips up and drags the male's pants down to his mid-thigh. His hands roam all the way up Mickey's thighs, feeling the places he's never been before. Mickey whines again in desperation, his whole body squirming under the touch. Then, Ian tugs his own pants down to around his knees, looking up at Mickey again for any sign of fear.

Instead, Mickey is eyeing the outline of Ian's cock through his tight black briefs, hungrily nodding his head as Ian adjusts their legs so that one of Mickey's thighs is hanging over Ian's while the other remains against the couch.

"Please," he says again, bringing Ian back down by the shirt to reconnect their mouths.

Ian grinds up against Mickey's hard cock, the fabric of their briefs being the only separation between the two boys. Mickey moans into Ian's mouth, his hips wildly rolling for any attempt at friction.

Ian licks into his mouth, sliding his tongue all along Mickey's as the smaller one continues to let out moan after moan, his breathlessness only turning Ian on even further. Ian's hands slide down to the edge of Mickey's shirt, fingers slipping up against the soft, bare skin. When Mickey doesn't object, Ian wraps his hands tightly around Mickey's waist and uses his muscle to move the smaller boy down in rhythm with each thrust.

Mickey _whimpers_.

Ian stops and looks at him, his gaze memorizing the way that Mickey Milkovich looks when he's an absolute fucking mess. He's biting his lip, eyes tearing up from just the slightest bit of touch between them. Ian wonders what he'll look like when he's bottoming out for Ian, because he doesn't think Mickey can look more pathetically desperate than he is in this moment.

"Fucking _move_ ," Mickey cries, rolling his hips to drag his cock up and down against Ian's own bulge.

So Ian moves. They're not kissing anymore, no, too focused on the euphoria between their hips for that. Mickey stares up at Ian with admiration, watching the way that Ian quickly pounds against Mickey. With their cocks rubbing against one another and Ian moving Mickey in perfect time, Mickey feels his leg tightening around Ian's waist.

"More, _uhn_ \- more, _uhn_ \- more, more, more," Mickey begs, his body limp from all the friction.

Ian is so incredibly turned on, his dick fully hard and begging to be released. He respects Mickey's wishes though, just keeps grinding their cocks together through their boxers with such intensity.

Mickey's hand flies up to his face as he whimpers again, his soft voice dying down in his throat as he moans out, "Right there, please, Ian, oh my god, right there, _uhn, uhn, uhhhhhrrright there,"_

Ian can feel it too. The underside of his shaft presses right against the head of Mickey's dick, so Ian holds on tightly as he humps that spot relentlessly. It's driving him crazy to see the way that Mickey falls apart, tears streaming down his cheeks as his short moans become, long, _loud_ , pornographic cries. As Ian rubs his cock right against Mickey's pleasure spot, he can feel his legs start to shake. His stomach tightens, his torso stuttering as he begins to frantically thrust up against Ian's cock in desperation.

Then, without even a little bit of warning, Mickey is biting his bottom lip and letting out a loud, pathetic whine. His body tightens for a few seconds, then relaxes into nothing as a wet spot spreads through his boxers.

" _Hooooooly shit_ ," Ian grins, staring down at the flustered face of Mickey.

The embarrassment quickly turns to anger, which quickly turns to rage. Mickey shoves on Ian's chest, huffing and spitting out obscenities. "Get the _fuck_ off of me! You fucking- You-"

Ian grabs him by the wrist and presses a delicate kiss against the side of Mickey's head, easing away the voice of Terry telling him bad things will happen for the sin the two of them just committed.

"It's okay," Ian whispers, pressing his forehead against Mickey's. He slowly lowers his body down until they're pressed together, a more intimate cuddling position than what they were previously doing. "You're alright, Mikhailo."

Mickey shakes, his whole body violently trembling underneath Ian's weight. He's not sure what it is; possibly a mixture of three emotions fighting for dominance in his mind. Fear of his father, the aftershocks of an orgasm, or the relief of being safe underneath Ian like this. All three seem to win, making Mickey's fingers quiver as he slowly wraps his arms around Ian's middle, hugging the boy who just gave him his first gay orgasm.

If either of the two had their eyes open, they would see the second string on their fingers start to glow in a gold color and dissipate into thin air. Just like it appeared, it dissolves into hazy sunshine until there's nothing tied around that finger anymore. Mickey is starting to accept himself, that thread has served its purpose. All that remains now is their original string, except it looks less knotted and stressed than before.

Ian was right. It's okay.


End file.
